


call of the wild (the lion & the wolf remix)

by bellmare



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: Breathplay, Dangan Ronpa Kink Meme, Despaircest, F/F, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 04:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/793841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellmare/pseuds/bellmare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sororicide. What a frightening word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	call of the wild (the lion & the wolf remix)

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for [this](http://superhighschoollevelsmut.dreamwidth.org/558.html?thread=375854#cmt375854) prompt.
> 
> _In the vast majority of the Despaircest fics I've seen, Mukuro is completely docile and submits to whatever Junko wants to do, usually being very gentle and unwilling to hurt Junko. I want to see the opposite. I want to see Mukuro staying in "solider-mode" during sex and just completely topping the shit out of her sister, with lots of biting and scratching and possessiveness, and Junko just LOVING it._

She's tired. She's so, so tired. 

She's tired of playing despair games; she's tired of Junko's whims and her idiosyncrasies. She's tired of being someone she isn't, she's tired of the expensive cosmetics she wears like greasy warpaint every day all for the sake of her little sister's schemes. She's tired of prowling through school hallways like they're battlefields, tired of watching her steps and watching her words, because she doesn't know who's going to snap next.

"Junko," she says. Her sister ignores her, but, what else is new? Mukuro grinds her teeth and thinks about all the times she has swallowed her pride. Too many times, she's done it too many times and for what?

"Junko, I've had enough." It comes out harsher than she expected; she likes the way it sounds, the aggressive edge her voice takes. Maybe this is what it's like to be Junko, to wage wars with words rather than with fists and knives and guns. Her sister blinks lazily at her and narrows her eyes, pensive. "Enough of what?" Junko singsongs, innocent and guileless as a child.

\-- except Junko was never innocent and never guileless; not even as a child when she squatted in the sun burning ants with a magnifying glass or crushing spiders and snails between her fingers, laughing at their ugliness.

"What do you mean, enough?" her sister prompts again.

Mukuro swallows back the frustration that boils at the back of her throat, bitter as bile. She's good at taking orders but giving them is another thing. Why is she holding back, she wonders. Isn't she the eldest? She dabs at her face with cotton pads and wipes the makeup off and watches them discolour and turn myriad shades, a colour palette of despair. Her scalp itches; when she rolls her neck the fibres of her fake pigtails slide across her skin -- too warm, too smooth. She tosses the wig off and runs her hands through her hair; she gets to be Mukuro Ikusaba for precisely eight hours a day; six while she sleeps, two while she sheds her skin and dons her sister's and reassembles herself in layers in Junko's image. How sad.

_No more games, Junko,_  she thinks about saying but it sounds so melodramatic, so much like her sister.  _I don't want to be you because I'm not,_  she thinks about saying and feels better. She says, instead, "what if I was tired of playing along?"

"Ohhhh?" Junko replies. She draws out the sound as long as she can, a long, lazy rolling syllable that ends flatly. Disinterest. She doesn't care. "What do you mean, you're tired of playing along? You're not thinking of, oh no, betraying me, are you?"

Mukuro knows her game well because she's grown up with it all her life. Each time she lets Junko reel her back in like a fly trapped in sticky honey, because it's the path of least resistance; because it's the easy way out. She's so tired. She's so tired of everything.

"Maybe," she says. Junko glances sharply at her and smiles, showing her teeth. Normal people don't smile like that, Mukuro thinks at the back of her mind. Nobody smiles with so many teeth like they're going to tear someone apart. Nobody does that expect for carnivore girls. Even carnivore boys, they know some sense of subtlety. "What would you do if I decided to stop playing along with everything you wanted?"

When Junko goes still she never knows what her sister has planned. When Junko's voice goes soft and serious Mukuro never knows what's going to happen. "What, indeed," Junko says and laughs, short and sharp. "I'll cry, and cry, and cry until you repent, of course!"

How like Junko that course of action is. "Are you sure?" Mukuro asks. She knows Junko. She knows Junko will do more than just cry. It's a proven hypothesis.

"Are you thinking about it, dear sister? Are you thinking about betraying me, right here, right now?"

Mukuro's familiar with the weight of a loaded gun; she knows how to disassemble and reassemble them with her eyes closed; she knows the same is true of loaded questions and the way Junko likes to aim them at people, and how her sister fires at will. Three bullets. Yes, no, maybe. She thinks about making her sister suffer. That's what they both want, isn't it, to feel all the pain and despair in the world. "Maybe," she says again. 

"Then prove it," Junko says. 

"Prove it, you say?" Mukuro replies. There are a lot of things she can use as leverage in this room. Junko made a mistake, to leave so many furnishings around here; Junko made a mistake, to not bother with confiscating her weapons. What is it they say, that blood is thicker than water? She wonders if Junko really believes that. Junko watches from the bed as Mukuro slides out her weapons and lays them out on the bedspread -- after all, they're a girl's best friends, aren't they, small and easily-concealed, all the better to kill anyone who tries to kill her with. Two hunting daggers down her boots; a small switchblade tucked down the waistband of her skirt; brass knuckles nestled in her bra -- the inventory of a mercenary in hiding. Mukuro's armed to the teeth -- or as much as she can be, in a place like this; whoever thinks about murdering her to escape, well, she'll give her sister a hell of a show.

Or would have, anyway. "What are you going to do?" Junko asks, like she's inquiring about the weather tomorrow or the news headlines scrolling across the screen on a minuscule ticker. "I don't know," Mukuro replies and slides off her tie. She wraps the fabric around Junko's wrists and pulls her sister's arms above her head and Junko tilts her head with interest as she complies.

"You always talked too much," Mukuro says and stuffs the end of Junko's tie into her mouth. "Maybe I wanted to be heard, just once. Maybe I wanted my opinion to matter, just once." How good it feels, to have a knife nestled in the palm of her hand again. She flicks out the blade with her thumb and slides it flush against Junko's belly. Junko's breath doesn't even hitch. Mukuro closes her eyes. How enviable, to have so much trust in someone, she thinks. How enviable, to trust in the euphoria of betrayal, if she decides to gut Junko like lamb on a butcher's slab. She slides the blade up, slowly, feeling the thread give way as she cuts Junko's shirt open.

"You couldn't have used the buttons?" Junko croons from behind her gag, and then, "I hope you're paying me back for that."

Mukuro's tired of hearing Junko talk; Junko loves everything about herself -- her own looks; the sound of her voice; her own cleverness; she's too self-absorbed to care about anything else. Mukuro thinks about replying; instead she slides the knife closer to her sister's skin, against the ridges of her sternum. What if she decided to angle the knife down, she wonders. What if she decided to stab Junko in the heart. Maybe she's stop draining her then, of everything -- all her time and her energy and her own free will. 

Junko arches against her; the knife-tip nicks her skin; Mukuro watches as red wells from a pinprick scratch. "Stop that," she says and reaches for a hunting knife. When she straddles her sister and stares down at her -- bared and vulnerable, pinned between her knees -- Mukuro wonders if she can do it, if she can really kill her sister. Sororicide. What a frightening word. She thumbs the guard and drives it down.

"Ooh," Junko purrs, eyeing the dagger. "Why did you have to ruin a perfectly good bed?"

Why, indeed. Mukuro pushes the other knife down and leans back to admire her handiwork. Held in place like a bug on a collector's tray, Junko looks like she belongs on some sort of exhibition. Disgusting. She can't even ruin something perfectly any more.

Junko pulls her hands free; the tie unravels and Mukuro thinks about tying it in a deadknot, next time, but where's the challenge in that? Junko seems to agree because she digs her red-lacquered nails into Mukuro's neck and into the curve of her trapeziods and _claws_ ; she's still smiling, only this time like a cat with the cream. Mukuro reacts on instinct; she pushes her thumbs against Junko's windpipe and against her hyoid and the soft cartilage until Junko lets go, until Junko laughs, low and unsteadily and scratches a clean panel of red down her chest. 

It hurts. She doesn't remember it ever being painful. Maybe she just shut it out before because it was easy, it was easy when she was fighting for her life and had more to worry about than flesh wounds and superficial scratches. It was easier when she used the bodies of fallen soldiers as shields; it was easier because she's never been wounded, not before. Only Junko's broken that record; only Junko has ever marked her with anything at all.

She knows how Junko likes it. Junko likes it rough; she likes a show of dominance because isn't what they're fighting for, for the right to be the ultimate despair? Mukuro doesn't know. She kisses the curve of Junko's jaw; her throat; she traces a slow line across the smooth lines of her sister's clavicles. How nice it must be to be beautiful; how nice it must be to be wanted. Junko's fingers clench angrily, insistently, on her hipbone. How self-centred she is, Mukuro thinks bitterly and bites down; her sister is soft where she isn't, smoother and more pliable. Her shoulders aren't taut and lean with muscle; the flesh yields to her and when Mukuro pulls away she can see each crescent-moon imprint of her teeth. 

Junko ruts against her, impatient with insistence. "Take your time," she says, almost spiteful. Mukuro ignores her and slides her hand against her sister's knees and nudges her thighs apart. The first rule of the hunter and the soldier is patience, she thinks. Patience to wait the prey out, patience to see the enemy's movements. Junko angles her hips towards Mukuro's fingers and Mukuro allows her wrist to still. She's content to watch as her sister works herself, content to wait as Junko rides her hand and grinds against her palm. Mukuro listens to her sister's breath coming shorter and faster; she listens to the small noises Junko makes as she fucks herself on her fingers. She's never made sounds like that, herself, because she's good at keeping quiet; because it incenses Junko so. Patience is a virtue; she has it in spades.

When she pulls her fingers away Junko spits out her gag and snarls at her. "What are you doing? What do you think you're doing?"

Mukuro smiles coldly, placidly. She's never turned that face to her sister before. How nice it feels. "Not what you want me to," she replies. Junko forgets herself, sometimes. She's not always tactical, not like Mukuro is. She forgets that Mukuro made it out of several firefights and wars unscathed; she forgets that Mukuro can dislocate anyone's shoulders in her sleep. She lashes out, aiming at Mukuro's eyes and Mukuro just grabs her elbow and twists her arm around, shifts her weight and flips Junko over with a knee between her shoulderblades. 

"Shouldn't have done that," Mukuro says. She's missed this feeling, of having power over someone. It's a terrible thing to be addicted to. Junko worms her free arm out from under her body and grabs one of the hunting knives; in the time it takes for her to pull it out of the bed Mukuro's seized the other and parries Junko easily. There's hardly any challenge in engaging her sister in a knife-fight, she thinks dispassionately as she seizes Junko's wrist and twists. Junko releases the dagger immediately and smiles slyly, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

Of course, of course. That's not their game. Not today.

It's sad, Mukuro thinks as she forces Junko down and tightens her tie, that the probably doesn't have it in her to kill Junko. Not her own sister. She begins to pull slowly, deliberately, and slides her hands between Junko's thighs. Junko arches towards her palm as she slides her fingers in and strokes her clit -- gently, at first, then harder, faster -- and she's talking now, short, staccato syllables of Mukuro's name she bites back as though she can save whatever breath is remaining in her lungs. She can hear Junko's voice failing, the edge vanishing from it as Junko wrenches at her hair and digs her nails into Mukuro's scalp -- and she knows Junko's close, soon, almost there, she yanks harder, fiercer, at Junko's tie until she clenches around her fingers and makes an ugly, strangled sound.

Mukuro lets go of Junko's tie and wipes her hand on the sheets. Her sister looks pretty like that, cheeks flushed, throat bruised, she thinks. She leans forward and kisses Junko, over the ragged lines of pink across her neck and licks a slow stripe down the column of her throat. There'll be marks there tomorrow, the skin mottled a pale sickly yellow and orchidflesh-purple; not that anyone will see, of course, when her sister's busy being the mastermind and hiding away from everyone. 

"I still trust you, you know," Junko says hoarsely. Her mouth curves into a smile. It looks far too vicious for someone in her position. "I hope you feel the same way towards me. Sisters gotta stick together, right?"

Mukuro doesn't answer. She doesn't know if she can believe anything Junko says. 

**Author's Note:**

> um hmm idk how well i conformed to the outline of the prompt, scratches chin.


End file.
